


Ain't That Lonely Yet

by great_whatsit



Category: Mayans M.C. (TV)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, it's coco/angel but mostly just coco, just a lot of feelings ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:47:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22105057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/great_whatsit/pseuds/great_whatsit
Summary: Coco’s first memories are of being alone.
Relationships: Johnny "Coco" Cruz/Angel Reyes
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	Ain't That Lonely Yet

Coco’s first memories are of being alone. Celia would kick him out when she came home with a trick, and he’d wait. Sometimes sitting on the stoop, usually wandering. Eventually, the stray dogs trusted him, so he’d have canine company, but their trust only went so far — any unexpected movement or sound sent them skittering away. People quickly got used to seeing a scrawny little six-year-old, trailing dogs, dodging motorcycles and pedestrians, kicking stones and killing time. 

Celia didn’t miss him much when wandered, or at least not very quickly, so his temporary exiles often turned into hours of exploring, observing. Watching parents with kids; boys with girls; men with women (men with men). He learned what relationships looked like from the outside; how friends interacted; how couples fought. How other parents hit their kids too, sometimes. But he saw some that didn’t — people who argued, but whose kids didn’t seem afraid of anything. Coco wanted to talk to them, to warn them to be careful if they wanted to survive, but he didn’t. Couldn’t. Parents didn’t understand the earnest, skinny little kid with filthy hair and ragged nails who was talking so seriously to their children. And when that kid refused to be put off and grabbed their sons or their daughters, hissing urgently about watching and waiting and not believing, the parents would suddenly turn concerned — angry — and drag their kids away. Coco’s heart broke every time.

\+ + +

When Coco went to school, people either picked on him or didn’t look at him — he was too weird, too intense, too much the son of a dirty whore. They found a lot of reasons to stay away. When Coco was drunk (and, later, high), though, his brain got quieter and he could relax; people were more willing to be around him then. He had friends, sort of. Friends he got high with, who knew who he was (some of them), and who didn’t pick on him (much). There were girls, too, girls as fucked up as he was who usually didn’t know his name; girls he would fuck so he could feel good for a minute, but the feeling never lasted long enough to be worth the vulnerability it cost. (There were boys, sometimes. Boys who messed with his head and who scared him and made him worry, so he’d shoot up and find a girl he could tell himself he was into.)

\+ + +

Coco got straight by being arrested. Three to five for selling smack; he did two and a half and almost wished he could stay inside. There it was good to be weird, to be intense, to freak people out. Inside, his liabilities were suddenly assets, and no one messed with him. Inside though, he never had a break from his brain. Prison moonshine almost helped, but mostly it made him sick and it was never enough to shut up the voice inside, telling him he was worthless, telling him he was failure, telling him he would never be a good dad and why the hell he did he think he was good enough to fuck anyone, let alone father a kid (three kids). Celia promised him the girl (Leticia, her name was Leticia) would be put up for adoption, so at least he wouldn’t ruin her like he had the boys. He thought about her when he needed a life to imagine.

\+ + +

As soon as he got out, Coco enlisted. He figured he’d have things to focus on there, and that the Marines could (maybe) protect him from himself. And it was perfect. Or, rather, he was perfect. Coco needed something — something detailed, something orderly — to occupy his brain, and he chose guns. He could take apart and reassemble his M4 with his eyes closed, and he lived for it. His body moved like a machine and his mind was at peace, approving of Coco’s doing something he was made to do. The same thing happened when he shot. The moment he picked up his gun, everything bad went away. He was confident and capable and there was nothing he couldn’t do. He loved being needed — loved taking care of people, keeping them safe. Other Marines, Afghani civilians, it didn't matter who: he was there with a bullet to protect them.

\+ + +

Leaving the Marines was hard and it was easy. Coco belonged there, he knew, but people telling him what to do and telling him to shut the fuck up when he disagreed, when he knew better — that he couldn’t handle anymore. That he was happy to escape. Being home, though. Being home was fucking hard. Celia was a nightmare, lying to him about Leticia, taking government money by pretending to be her mother, calling him a washout and telling Leticia not to be like her deadbeat “big brother.” His brain was so loud again, echoing everything Celia said, telling him he was nothing, worthless; that the Marines were over, and that no one needed him here, in his real life.

\+ + + 

When Coco met Angel, everything changed. 

Angel messed with him, Angel picked on him, Angel told him he was a weird fucker, just like everyone else did. But Angel let him being weird and intense and creepy and didn’t turn away, didn’t kick him out, didn’t even look at him funny. Angel let him be who he was, and acted like it was fine.

For a long time, Coco thought it was a con. No one actually accepted him — liked him? — without wanting something. When he was a kid, they wanted drugs, or dick. In the Marines, they wanted to fucking survive. But Angel? Coco couldn’t figure Angel out and it scared him. His mind roared, reminding him he was useless, that no one liked him, no one would ever love him, that Angel didn’t need him and was setting him up. But Angel never asked for anything other than rent. Angel told Coco to shut the fuck up when he exploded, demanded the truth, that he tell Coco what he wanted. Angel told him to shut the fuck up, went and got them beers and sat back down on the couch, his shoulder against Coco’s, his thigh hot against Coco’s thigh.

\+ + + 

When Coco discovers the MC, it’s Angel all over again, but a thousand times worse. Angel has taught him that maybe, just maybe, there’s something in him that’s worth saving, but suddenly he has a family for the first time and it’s exhausting and impossible and exhilarating, all at once. He wakes up every morning fucking terrified that something will happen to Angel, or to Chucky, or to Leticia, and he has wars with the inside of his head about whether he should let anyone out of sight, and how rational humans act, and about how he’s never been a rational human anyway so why are they having this conversation. He’s anxious and elated and he wants to cry all the time, and it’s the best thing he’s ever had in his life. (Sometimes he does cry, with his head on Angel’s chest and Angel’s hand rough and warm on the back of neck, his voice low. “Love you Coco. You’re good man, you’re good.” When Coco's done, they go back to their beers and don't talk about it.)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks/blame to [waferkya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/waferkya/pseuds/waferkya) for writing amazing fic and focusing my free-floating Mayans angst on Coco.
> 
> Title from Dwight Yoakam.
> 
> Please come shout Mayans (and/or SVU, b/c obv) things at me on [tumblr](http://nick-amaro.tumblr.com/).


End file.
